


we don't have to be lonely

by aheartcalledhome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Character of Color, Established Relationship, F/M, Others will be tagged as they appear - Freeform, Queer Themes, Sometimes Your Partner's Gender Expression Changes And That's Fergalicious, gender euphoria, vague allusions to child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/aheartcalledhome
Summary: two soft butches converge toward a single closet. that's mawwiage.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkdementors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkdementors/gifts), [firbolging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firbolging/gifts), [EliteDelieght](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliteDelieght/gifts), [Glove23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glove23/gifts).



> several credits to give before we get to the story:
> 
> friends: shoutout to ani, e, and mina for always being supportive of all the bullshit i churn out. when i text you guys at ridiculous hours of the night, you always acknowledge it? that's power, bros. that's love. that's friendship. this one goes out to all of the completely separate but equally hilarious discussions we've all had about soft butch ginny stealing harry's everything. we need a group chat, is what i'm realizing
> 
> conner: happy birthday, broski. thank you for being a great friend and putting up with all my nonsense in your twitter and tumblr dms for far too many years. this one's for you
> 
> britpickers: shoutout to the pals in the hinny discord (specifically flo, boricy, inareskai, and katie) for teaching me what boots is. you guys are beyond gracious and so so sweet. thank you for answering questions! i tried not to say anything else about britain, but if i've fucked up, i apologize!
> 
> sometimes you've gotta write about the queer dream, which is having a cool wife that you share a closet with, but sometimes, the pov character is harry potter, who takes his goddamn time on reaching the point
> 
> welcome to the gay thunderdome. spoiler: ginny weasley is gonna win

“Do you like it?” Ginny runs a hand through what’s left of her hair, little more than orange-red stubble on the sides of her head. On top, it’s long enough to run his fingers through. Harry’s mouth waters and his fingers twitch. He thought he’d be mourning something, but the only dead thing he sees is his past lack of taste. Is he sweating? He feels like he should be, if he isn't. “I showed the hairdresser a picture of you, actually.”

“Me?” Harry asks. He didn't know he looked like that. He didn't realize he looked _good_. Because Ginny looks beyond good, ravishing, in fact, and if this is what she sees in him, well, he must be something. “What picture?”

“The one with Teddy. You know the one. From my locker.” She fishes it out of her wallet, a threadbare thing he’d bought himself with his first paycheck from the Ministry. It had gone missing shortly after Ginny had bought him something better. For a birthday, or an anniversary, or some other special occasion. To tell the truth, he didn't remember. If she’d wanted it, she could’ve asked and he would've given it gladly. But she hadn’t asked about stealing his heart either, and Harry was adjusting to that just fine. 

In the picture, Teddy, hair shifted black to match his, is standing up in Harry’s lap, hands on his shoulders, planting a kiss on the tip of Harry's nose. Harry is smiling, wavy hair falling into his eyes, teeth in full view. He doesn’t realize how much he’s grown used to the activity of wizarding photographs, the comforting loop of a single, sweeping motion on repeat, until he thinks that it all feels rather stationary. The admission that she kept the photograph in her locker was so casual, a light breeze just rattling the leaves of old hurts in his head, not enough to knock anything out of place but enough to make him remember that he’d never thought this life, this love would be his. 

A partner that wanted to remember him while she was away, who took every surprise in stride, like she'd been expecting it all along. A godson that trusted Harry so boundlessly, that believed so earnestly in the fact that Harry would never hurt him that he gave his little whisper kisses freely. Pictures in which he was the focus, pictures in which he was at all. He remembered rooting through packets of photographs from Boots as a child, once the Dursleys had had them developed, and found nothing of himself -- not even a single thumb in the corner of a picture to point at and remind himself that he had been there. It had all felt like a tremendous illusion, some days, unbearably heavy and confusing, and with nothing to mark his place, he'd felt quite like a leaf blown about in a hurricane.

He would have never been able to dream up the life he had now, not at seventeen, and certainly not at eleven, when a letter had opened the door to a whole new world, _her_ world. Nominally, it was his too -- he'd nearly given his life to save it -- but somewhere along the line, magic and Ginny had become synonymous, every swish and flick of a wand blending into his awe at how proudly she moved through the world.

“Yeah. I’ve seen it.” He says, which feels rather ridiculous, since he’s holding the genuine article in his hands. Is this a copy that he's holding? Is the original in her locker? He waves it around, like that's casual or cool. “So that’s what you like, huh? Me? My things?” He motions to his old wallet and she follows his gaze like she's been waiting for him to ask, chuckling. “That’s what you’re keeping me around for?”

“You’ve got me, Potter. I’m going to suck whatever style you’ve got out of you like a vampire.” Ginny laughs, tucking the wallet away in her pocket before throwing her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shoulder. They swing gently from side to side, like they're dancing to a tune no one can hear, and Harry feels at peace, whatever anxiety usually bubbled threateningly away in the background of his thoughts quieting to a muted hiss. “That’s the goal. Dressing like a grandfather while running errands at three in the morning.”

“Hey, I’m a sexy grandfather.” Harry says, before he quite thinks it through. “Or maybe I’ll be one someday, I don’t know.” His fingers flex against her lower back as he processed what he'd just implied about her involvement. "Oh, I mean, not if you don't--" They've never discussed children or a family, and how had he just assumed she might want that? She has plenty of siblings (though the number's always off, with Fred gone) and grew up in a crowded home. While Harry thinks that sounds splendid, does she? Would she want to open the door to living that experience a second time, as a parent? "Ginny, I'm sorry, I'm always doing these things wrong."

“I’ll be happy to find out. Someday in the far future though, please.” Ginny doesn’t miss a beat, to her credit. "I don't doubt you will be, though."

"This means I get two things of yours, then." Ginny's expression turns hungry. He quite likes it. "And I get to pick."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a most heinous crime / he stole her yoga pants / goddamn, that backfired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for being so sweet when i posted the last chapter!!! i really hope you appreciate this one!!! the last scene is one of my favorite hinny things i've ever written!!!!
> 
> -s

Game day is always an event in the Potter-Weasley household. It has been an event since the long lost time when they couldn't call themselves a household yet, back in their Hogwarts years. Harry and Ginny spent some of their best mornings decked out in their matching red and gold uniforms, identical except for the name and number, conspiring over breakfast in the Great Hall about illegal formations and tampering that might remain unnoticed by Madam Hooch. Even now, Harry finds those memories a great comfort when the Harpies are on the road, leaving the house empty of everything but himself and his thoughts.

Thankfully, today’s match is a homer.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” Ginny points a fork at him when he stumbles down the hallway, one hand adjusting his dirty glasses and the other flat against the wall. “I need to be at work in an hour.” His old Gryffindor t-shirt, the logo faded from years of washing, is a little too long on her and a little too wide in the shoulders, but when she turns around to put her bowl in the sink, the sight of his name splashed across her shoulders is almost unbearable. 

“Do you really have to be on time?” He asks despite himself, and she laughs, setting the bowl to wash itself with a wave of her wand. 

“It’s the shirt, isn’t it?” Ginny smiles deviously.

“You did that on purpose?” Harry squawks.

His face heats up under her gaze, and he stares at a hinge on a cabinet door that seems barely attached. He’ll fix it when she leaves -- it’ll give him time to calm down. If she ever leaves, at this point. Ginny has never done anything halfway, and embarrassing him is one of her favorites.

“I’ve never done anything by accident.” Ginny winks. “Fine, if you’re so tempted, I’ll leave early.” Her bag innocently sits by the door. They had packed it the night before, checking against the list three separate times, to make sure she didn’t need to rush in the morning. “You’ll get what you want after the game anyhow.”

“You haven’t done your nails yet.” He points out, just as she’s about to leave.

“So I haven’t.” She looks over her nails. They’re neatly cut, but bare of their usual polish, unless she’s using the clear one he spotted her examining at the store, the last time they went together. “Something bothering you, Potter?”

“If you’re not going to do it, someone should.” He blurts out. He doesn’t realize until he’s said it that he thinks it might look nice. That he might like it. He’s never had time to figure out what he wants. There were the Dursleys first, and then the war, and after all of that, it felt silly to think about trying anything new. Marrying Ginny has been his biggest risk to date, after the war, and he still counts himself lucky that she said yes. “It’s, uh, it’s brought you good luck so far. Why stop while you’re ahead?”

“Are you volunteering?” She asks, taking his hand and turning it this way and that. “Green and gold would look good on you.”

“Would you stay a little longer, if I did?” He asks, trying to look as innocent as possible. “I couldn’t possibly do a good job by myself. And what if I spilled it on the floor? If you wanted it later, then you’d have to replace it.”

“True.” Ginny grins, proving once and for all that she’d had no intention of leaving early in the first place. “Wash your hands and I’ll get everything.”

Harry had never spent so much time staring at his own hands. Would anyone at work say anything? Was he so worried about others’ objections that he didn’t want to commit to this? Was it worth it to try something so new in an attempt to win a competition that probably wasn’t even happening?

“It’s not surgery, Harry.” He can hear the smile in Ginny’s voice. “Dry yourself off. I still do have a time limit.”

He wipes his hands dry on a teal kitchen towel in desperate need of a wash and sits down opposite her at the kitchen table, holding his hands out toward her.

“Last chance,” she says, like she’s expecting him to back out.

She’s married the wrong man, if she thinks he’ll back down from any challenge.

“Is it a pattern? Gold first? Green first? Does it depend on the game?” He asks instead, and she beams. 

“Well, it’s green first if the Prophet’s predicted us winning, gold if not. So today’s match against Appleby is green. So we’ll start there.” She paints the nail of his left pinky green. “And if we start with green, it’s odd numbers from there.” His middle finger gets painted green next, then his left thumb. She moves on to his right hand, his pointer finger and ring finger completing the pattern, and she sits back to admire her work. “So that’s one coat of the green done.”

“One coat?” He asks, confused, as she starts in on the gold. “You have to do this multiple times?”

“Yes.” Ginny looks at him in surprise. “You’ve got to make sure the color’s strong, Harry.”

“But it smells so bad,” Harry complains, but he’s captivated by the way the color sweeps over a part of him he’d never thought about as potentially beautiful. She goes over the green again and the process is almost therapeutic in its repetitiveness, each nail disappearing and then reappearing brighter, more intense. The green and gold look good against his skin, the color popping against the dark brown of his summer tan. “I kind of get it now.” He says, in a smaller voice than he’d anticipated, staring down at his hands. “Why people like this.”

“So you’ll be our Harpies nails participant from now on, then.” Ginny winds her fingers into his hair, sensing that he needs something grounding him, between the anxiety and the enjoyment and the confusion suffusing it all. “I might do it sometimes, but… It’s lost its appeal for me, a bit.”

“Is this part of the haircut thing?” He asks. “Or do you just not feel like it anymore?”

“A little bit of both.” She says slowly. “If that’s alright.”

“It’s your life. Why do I have to approve?” He scoffs, and then holds his hands up, nails facing her. “Is this alright?”

“You don’t have to ask, Harry--”

“Then neither do you.” He leans across the table to kiss her cheek. “How long until this dries?”

“About twenty minutes.” She strokes his cheek. “Maybe a little longer. You think you can sit still for that long?”

“You could help.” He says hopefully, pushing his chair back from the dining table. “It’s only my hands I can’t use, after all.”

“In that case, impress me.” Ginny screws the tops tightly onto the nailpolish bottles slower than strictly necessary, sets them aside on a nearby counter, and stalks forward toward him, a million plans brewing in her eyes. He moves one hand so he can cage her in against the table, and she barely avoids kicking him in a sensitive place when she pulls herself up to sit on it. “I’ve only got forty minutes before I’ve got to be in Holyhead.” 

“Oh, don’t worry.” Harry’s hands are still out of commission. He wouldn’t dare smudge her hard work. But his mouth has no such problems. “I’ve got a reputation for good work.”

* * *

The sight of Ginny in the air always reminds Harry that the war is truly over. 

The grace with which she cuts through the air, the gleam in her eyes that means there’s a goal on the way, all of it captivates him in a way that he can’t explain. It gets his heart to thumping, the old chest monster roused from its sleep and roaring for a Harpies victory. Loving Ginny is the match he’ll be playing for the rest of his life -- an endless push and pull of compromises, highs and lows and in-betweens all mushed together. A highlight reel of love he thought would never be his, every single day for the rest of his life.

She sneaks past Stevenson, who’s supposed to be covering her but leaves the smallest gap in his coverage for her to exploit, splits Rowe and Lewis, who look like they’ve been run over by a truck by the time she sizes up the Keeper, Wright, and throws an absolute rocket into the left hoop. The stadium erupts in cheers. The Harpies descend upon Ginny, screaming. They’re one hundred and sixty points ahead, thanks to Ginny’s fifth goal of the game. If Appleby catches the Snitch, it won’t even matter -- the Harpies will collect the points in the standings handily, just as the Daily Prophet predicted, and Ginny will come home sweaty, exhausted, and proud as punch of herself, all well, well deserved.

Harry looks down at his nails, green first, gold second, and smiles. Maybe he should do this for every game, if it brings her such good luck. No one’s asked questions, partly because his hands have spent most of the game tucked into his trouser pockets, but he likes keeping them as his little secret with her. He has always enjoyed the ability to have a secret, something he was so viciously denied as a child. He’s been guilty of taking his desire for privacy too far in the past, he doesn’t think this ranks very high on the list of secrets he’s kept.

Harry holds his breath until the Harpies’ Seeker, Murray, wheels about in midair and snatches at a shimmer of gold, trapping it neatly in her hand. Ginny is screaming at the top of her lungs, jubilant, and Harry’s heart aches with jealousy. He misses being in the thick of a celebration more than he misses playing -- misses the closeness, the camaraderie that a point, a crucial catch of the Snitch, a win when one was sorely needed could bring. 

But more than all of that, he misses being on the same team as Ginny, misses looking into her eyes, the two of them in the center of the huddle, and seeing the heady mixture of want and pride muddled together in her heart. Now, he has to wait to see her until the media’s done with her, until her captain’s let them all go for the night. It’ll be hours. He usually goes home and showers, so she’ll have time and space to unwind, and gets into bed with a good book to occupy himself until she’s in the mood for a cuddle (or more, depending on how tough the game’s been on her), but he always feels guilty leaving. Like he should be a part of it. Like he owes it to her to stay, even if she’s expressly told him that having this part of the game to herself is freeing.

He settles into his seat with a sigh. Though he feels he deserves it more days than not for leaving her how he did during the war, he never stops wondering when he will stop having to wait for her to come home.

* * *

Harry’s hair is still drying when she comes in, throwing her gear bag down in the front hallway. He runs down the hallway to wrap her up in his arms, and she moans and groans about getting her grime on him before he jokes that he can shower again with her, if she wants. He knows it won’t happen -- she wants a moment to herself and she’s well and truly earned it -- but a man can always dream. 

“Go on then.” He says, the words paired with a kiss to her cheek. 

Ginny stumbles off toward their bedroom to set out the clothes she’ll sleep in, the locations of unsightly bruises and bumps slowly becoming visible as she sheds the layers of strength she wears in public like shields. He stares after her, mouth opening and closing with no real thought behind it, words having deserted him. She is so beautiful like this, when she chooses vulnerability, when she allows it to envelop her and make her anew in its soft, golden light.

And he is about to prank her so hard that she’ll remember it for years.

She did say he could have two things of hers, in return for the wallet and the haircut. He’s taken the nails, so there’s one spot open. Harry knows what leggings Ginny will have laid out for tonight. And he wants them for himself.

He waits until he hears the shower running, Ginny humming a Celestina Warbeck tune slightly off-key, before sneaking into their room and swiping Ginny’s yoga pants, shucking off his own plaid sleep pants before pulling them on. For all the shit she gives him about him having gone soft in his “old age”, he can still wear most of her clothes, thanks to the muscle she’s put on as a Harpy. It makes for a convenient closet situation -- they only buy clothes that they both like, and anything is free game.

In retrospect, he should’ve seen the haircut coming.

He borrows a favorite Harpies hoodie of hers and tugs it over his head quickly when he hears her feet pattering about in the bathroom, making it down the hall just as the door creaks open, Ginny emerging sleepy eyed in a cloud of steam, a towel cinched around her chest. The bedroom door closes behind her, but there’s no noise. No reaction. He frowns in confusion. Has she not realized he took her yoga pants? Don’t they mean something to her?

He’s always been a little sensitive about having things that are his. Growing up with little more than Dudley’s hand me downs and a few broken action figures to his name played a big part in it. But over the years since the war, he’s softened his views a little, allowed Ginny’s things and his to bleed together into a single, unified set. He’s let her into his life, into his dragon hoard of precious things, and she’s opened her heart to him. 

This is a classic prank. Something of the prank victim’s goes missing, and the perpetrator of the prank has it, in an easily discoverable and funny fashion that causes no lasting harm to the pranker, the prankee, or the stolen object. Hopefully he hasn’t stretched out her leggings too much. If so, he’ll replace them. He’s not that cruel.

When she comes down the hallway, still damp from her shower, in a vest and boxer briefs that she’s clearly stolen from his underwear drawer, his breath catches in his throat. He can feel his pupils dilating, if such a thing is possible, his heart beating rabbit fast in his chest, banging against his ribcage like a prisoner fighting to escape. 

“Well?” She says, eyes glassy, and he is about to tell her to go rest, an apology gluing his throat shut and trapping his words behind it, when he realizes she’s staring at his legs. 

He doesn’t think much of his legs, like most of his other body parts. He had started running daily as stress relief once the war was over, and Ginny had laughed and laughed at the irony of it before suggesting they do it together. Now that her training regimen at work’s stepped up, thanks to her now being a starter on the first team, he’s been running alone most mornings and evenings, and sometimes in the afternoon, if he’s keyed up enough and needs something to settle himself. 

“I took your leggings.” He says, sticking out a leg like a child doing a dance pose, toes pointed. He can be graceful too, when the situation requires it. “See?”

“Yeah.” She chokes out. Her cheeks are red. Her neck is red. He wants to see how low that flush goes. “I see that.”

“We’re four to two.” His mouth’s gone dry, his head pounding. “You took two more things from me.”

“Then you’d better take them back, Potter.” She says, stumbling through the words like she’s drunk on something. On him, he realizes. On how he looks in her clothes. 

“I’d be glad to.” He grins, pulling her toward him for a kiss that would’ve made Rita Skeeter keel over dead. “You did win, after all. Just as the Prophet predicted.”

“Cause of the nails.” Ginny whispers breathily. “You’ve got to do them now. Every game.”

“Every game.” Harry promises, smiling against her lips.

Maybe change is good.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you'd like to see anything in particular in what meena's calling the "soft butch cinematic universe"!


End file.
